


Hypocrisy

by Sachita



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sachita/pseuds/Sachita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How could she sit there, looking at all the innocent children she had sworn to protect, when she belonged to the guilty ones? How could she accuse others when she should be accused? And how could she have ever been so stupid to fall for one Tom Riddle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Minerva/Tom has always been a pairing, that has fascinated and intrigued me. However, this is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered story about them, so I am quite nervous about it all. I do hope, some of you like it though...and please do tell me, what you think of it so far. More is to come soon. It's based on both the books and the films and the prologue takes place at the beginning of the sixth movie, when Dumbledore gives his speech. Have you noticed Minerva looking a little distracted in the background? I have, and this what came out of it. English is not my first language, so I am sorry for typos, grammatical mistakes and the like. If they are so bad that they make you scream in front of your computer, then please tell me (= Ok, but I'll stop rambling now. Hope you enjoy!  
> Sachita
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> The banner was made by the wonderful Reiko Anne Nguyen/ Nyxiam-Belle - thank you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Prologue**

***

**Hogwarts, 1996**

*****  
**

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****  


 

**  
**

"His name was Tom Riddle."

Gasps and whispers could be heard- a silent look of shock was on most of the faces, as the young witches and wizards of Hogwarts digested that information.

Minerva McGonagall felt a flood of heat come to her face at the mention of that name, whether it was out of fear or something else entirely she couldn't have said.

Oddly disconcerted she lowered her eyes and bit her upper lip in a feeling of sudden, burning shame. Fear, yes, it was only logical for it to be there. Fear was only to be expected at the mention of the name Riddle, for it was said in one breath with another name, one that few dared to say out loud- "Voldemort," she whispered, and even though it had been a quiet, nearly inaudible whisper, slight gasps came from her right and her left.

She ignored them. Tom Riddle- Voldemort…the same, wasn't it? The answer came from deep within, from the deepest recesses of her soul, where she herself rarely ventured, except in her dreams, that is. And it was that answer, which made the colour rise to her cheeks in a feeling of both fear and profound shame…No, it wasn't the same.

Tom Riddle was an altogether different entity from Lord Voldemort. And she…Minerva McGonagall, stern Head of the House Gryffindor, strict Professor McGonagall…she longed for him. For the manifestation of evil itself. She did not have the heart to stay any longer, couldn't stand the gazes of the innocent children, when she herself was one of the guilty ones, for she had loved and that was her fault alone. Had loved… Only moments after the end of Albus's speech, she got up and strode away purposely, her dignity being the only thing to keep her from running.

Yes, she had loved. Had loved him. Tom. Tom Riddle. Yes, Tom Riddle, that was what his name had been. Only Tom to her, though.

She heard only the echo of her own heartbeat in her ears and the sound of her quick steps, as she rounded a corner. Her robes swished on the ground after her and she kept on walking. Whereto? She couldn't have said, only knew that she had to look purposeful. Otherwise someone might ask her questions, stop her to talk to her and she knew that she couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye right now. Not now, when flashes of dark hair, pale skin and eyes the colour of the sea on a cloudy day assaulted her wherever she turned. There he leaned casually against a wall, hands in his pockets, regarding her with an inscrutable look. Here, he sat on a window sill, waiting for her and smiling that irresistible smile, when she finally arrived. Had finally arrived, for it had been long ago, and he was not here now. Minerva forced herself to calm down and to quieten the treacherous part of her, which cried out in joy at the prospect of him really sitting there, in flesh and blood. He was the enemy. Minerva paused for a moment.

What a two-faced, deceitful woman you are, a quiet inward voice whispered. Remember Ginevra Weasley? Of course she did remember the youngest Weasley's first year at Hogwarts, remembered not being able to protect one of her Gryffindor cubs from evil itself and remembered, with a feeling of nausea and shame, being envious of Ginny for having the chance to meet him. Of course she had banished the thought out of her head immediately, but when she had stood in the Headmaster's office that day, and when she had seen the diary lying there, she had itched to run her fingers alongside the damaged cover, feel the withered parchment that his finger had touched…A warning glance from Albus had made her come to her senses quickly. A sensible man, Albus.

The remote part of the castle where her feet carried her to was deserted. It always was, it always had been as long as she could remember. Her earliest memory of that deserted part included this very hallway, where she was standing now. However, that niche over there had been sprinkled with flowers that day and she had worn one in her hair, while waiting for him: a red rose intermingling with black tresses. Tom had plucked it from her hair, throwing it up playfully and daring her to watch, as he let it dance in circles in the sun-dusted air. A quick flick of his wand had ended the spectacle though, and Minerva had only been able to watch in shock, as the rose fell to the floor, withered and died. She had demanded angrily, why he had done that. Tom had smiled one of his charming smiles and he had conjured another rose out of thin air, this one much redder than the first one, much bigger and much more beautiful. Minerva had accepted it warily and he had put it back into her hair. It had been nothing disastrous or terrible, yet Minerva had only years later realised, that this had been his way of putting a mark on her. Marking her his-and yet, he hadn't even had to do that.

She had been his all along. Kisses had followed after that rose. Kisses, delivered so hot and burning, completely unlike the ice in his eyes. He had trailed kisses over her bared throat, caressed her pale cheeks…

Minerva shuddered as she stood there, one hand on her cheek, the other extended as if to keep the memories at bay. She gasped and quickly withdrew her hand, feeling the skin of her face. It was wrinkly, like old parchment preserved over too many years. It had been so long, so long. Fifty years, since she had last seen his face, heard his laugh, sat opposite of him in the library and watched him studying.

 

What had happened to them? What had happened to what they used to have?

 

The answer was there as clearly as if it had been shouted out into the air. Tom Riddle –Lord Voldemort. The very same. He had killed, murdered, tortured. He had let others bleed, let others suffer, let others kill for him. She longed for a murderer. She longed to hear a murderer's laughter. Who the hell was she? Surely not Minerva McGonagall, strong Head of the House Gryffindor, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, fighting against the manifestation of evil itself?

No, she decided, she was just a gullible hypocrite.

 

"Merlin, Tom," she sighed and slowly sunk to her knees.

"Why?"


	2. A strange boy

**Hogwarts, 1937**

**  
**

"Ex-extremist movements increase all over Europe. It's now September 1937, four years after the rise of the right-wing extremists in Germany and twelve years after Mussolini's rise in Italy, so our Central Europe corres-correspondent Thomas Wilkins believes, that it is safe to say that neither dictatorship will waver. The situation in Russia is…"

"Min! Minerva! Stop that!" The tall Second Year let her paper sink and glared at the girl, who had spoken, a freckled red-head with glasses.

"What is it, Elma?" she asked in irritation.

"No-one wants to hear it." Elma nodded to the paper. "Who cares what is going on in Muggle Europe anyway?"

"You should care!" Minerva's incredulous voice rose in pitch.

"Why?" Justin Miller, a pustular boy of thirteen, raised an eyebrow. "We do not live among them. We do not care about them. Why should we concern ourselves with the Muggles?"

Minerva was red-faced and threw her long braid impatiently over her shoulder. "You will come off of your high horse, Justin Miller, just wait," she said angrily.

"You should concern yourselves with this because bombs don't tend to differentiate between wizard and muggle."

She received only silence and white-faced stares as an answer, but before she could continue, the gravelly voice of Headmaster Dippet echoed through the Great Hall. "Everyone fall silent, while our newcomers are sorted." Minerva turned away from the accusing stares of her classmates and looked to the front. The first years looked all the same to her, small and nervous. She sometimes tended to forget that she had been in the same position only a year before. _"Old Minnie Mouse,"_ the boys whispered about her behind their hands. She always pretended to be indifferent, but inside, eleven-year-old Minerva was hurt.

The first years didn't look at the faces of the older students, all but one. He was a small boy with neatly-parted black hair, somewhat ill-fitting robes and an intense blue stare, that was intently fixed on Minerva, who tried her best to hold it. She had never been one to back down, but the strange force of the boy's stare both confused and frightened her-

"Riddle, Tom!"

-until he broke the stare and walked to the front. Minerva hated the immense feeling of relief that flooded up in her. The Speaking Hat had barely touched the boy's dark head, when it already shouted: "SLYTHERIN!"

Minerva involuntarily flinched as her eyes wandered over to the green-and-silver-decorated table. The Serpents. The Snakes. There was an unspoken rule for Gryffindors not to like Slytherins, and vice-versa. Minerva hated how these snakes valued people only for their blood status, not for their achievements or their character. But wasn't she forgetting something? A cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she recalled the words of the Sorting Hat a year prior. "Slytherin…," it had hissed. "Oh yes, it would be an option. Ambition…it is there aplenty, Minerva McGonagall. You want to succeed, you want to be the best….But no," the hat had continued, "there is also courage and the fierce determination to help your friends. Then, I daresay, it shall be: GRYFFINDOR!"

The last part it had roared out into the Great Hall and Minerva had slipped off the chair with shaking knees, barely making it to the Gryffindor table before collapsing at one of the empty places. And, like today, her eyes had wandered over to the Slytherin table… Minerva pushed her food around on her plate and finally got up.

"I am not hungry," she told Elma, who only shrugged, "if you'd excuse me."

Later that day she was crossing a corridor on her way to Gryffindor Tower, when a voice called out: "Excuse me."

She turned around slowly and was suddenly face-to-face with the First Year from the Great Hall, and wincing, she stepped back in surprise and shock.

The boy slowly smiled at her. "I am sorry," he said politely, "I did not wish to startle you."

There was a sense of wrongness, which Minerva couldn't exactly place. Maybe it had something to do with the cultivated smoothness of the boy's voice, although he was even a year younger than her or with the uncannily attentive look in his blue eyes. After all, he was only a child, wasn't he?

"Yes?" She was annoyed that her voice came out as a croak and cleared her throat, throwing her braid over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"I got lost," the boy said with that silky voice. "I was wondering whether you could help me."

"Slytherin, right?" Minerva asked briskly. "Follow me."

She didn't expect an answer, hadn't really wanted an answer, but nevertheless she got an answer. "That's right," he said and turning around, she had the disconcerting feeling that he was mocking her, though he was carefully maintaining a blank façade.

"Come along then," she mumbled and hurried down the steps, the desire to get rid of him making her go faster. Nevertheless she dreaded going down to the Slytherin Dungeon. Gryffindor Tower was a lofty place by comparison. When they had arrived outside the Dungeon, or at least where Minerva saw Slytherin Students enter seemingly into the Wall, she stopped.

"Here you are," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, and again she was helplessly drawn to his eyes. She was confused, quite irritated and still there was a multitude of feelings swirling around in her head that she couldn't have explained even if asked.

"I am Tom Riddle," the boy said suddenly. "I'll be eleven soon."

"Minerva McGonagall," she managed. "Eleven."

"I guess I'll see you around," he commented finally, giving her another one of his smiles. The ease with which he made his way to the Slytherin Dungeon however, told her that he probably hadn't needed her help at all. He had just sought her out and asked for her help because- yes, why because? She decided that he had wanted to annoy her. Well, he had definitely succeeded.

"Bloody stupid Slytherins," she muttered, Scottish accent coming to the fore. Minerva hastily made her way up to Gryffindor Tower, breathing a sigh of relief, when she saw the daylight again. Slytherins were Idiots, that little episode just proved it again. And yet she could not help but think of a raven-haired boy with earnest blue eyes.

Tom Riddle.

Tom.

The next time Minerva met Tom Riddle, it was close to the end of the school year . Her birthday had been in October and so she was now a respectable twelve-year-old and looking forward to being a Third Year and she was studying hard in preparation for it already.

The train back to London was leaving soon, and full of regret, Minerva walked once again out to the grounds to catch a last look at the magnificent countryside that she wouldn't see for a whole summer. Gravel crunched under her dirty shoes and she frowned at them. It was a rainy summer, full of mud and wetness, yet Minerva liked this weather. She had always loved this weather above all others; for her it was neither sunshine, nor snow, nor rain, but rather this impenetrable mist hanging over the lake and the surrounding dark forests. A contradiction that she could not help but chuckle at, for she liked this weather but hated dirt with a passion, even though both came hand in hand.

 

The air was clean, but cold, and the sky was grey. She breathed in deeply and smiled fleetingly.

What a wonderful day.

She walked on to the edge of the lake and then she saw that she was not alone. A small, dark-haired boy was sitting in the mud with no care for cleanliness and he was throwing pebbles into the lake. Minerva watched for a moment, how they sailed out over the water and finally dropped, , splashing clear water all about. It was Tom. Tom Riddle. This time, however, he seemed to be less in control of his surroundings and the impression he gave off seemed to be lacking his usual grace that he had emanated in the hallways whenever she had seen him. Maybe that was why she chose to sit down next to him.

"Minerva," he acknowledged her flatly.

"Tom," she retorted in a similar tone.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to the train by now?" he sneered.

"Shouldn't you?" she shot back acidly. To her surprise, he smiled in wry amusement.

It was an odd expression on the face of an eleven-year-old, but Minerva had long since stopped wondering about it. He didn't say anything, though, and for a while they sat in silence, looking out to the grey water that seemed to be clinging to the colourless horizon. The landscape suddenly ceased to be beautiful and transformed into something grim and bleak. Minerva shuddered and drew her knees to her body.

"I don't want to go back," Tom said suddenly through clenched teeth. "I hate it there."

Minerva was taken aback by the venom in his voice and she asked tentatively: "Where?"

Instead of answering, Tom spun around and Minerva winced, when she saw the hatred in his eyes. For a second she could have sworn that there was something else in those blue orbs, like snakes uncoiling to strike, and she shuddered once again. Tom advanced suddenly and Minerva found herself backing away further and further.

"You don't know what I am talking about?" Tom laughed mirthlessly, as Minerva finally stopped, her skirt muddy and wet, her fingers dirty, but defiance shining in her eyes. "Remember the Gryffindor in you, do you?" he asked mockingly, but she did not answer. "Do you want to know all the reasons why I hate this dingy orphanage where I am forced to live? Do you want to know how the muggles treat one whom they perceive as different? Have you heard muggle childrens' cruel taunts before? Heard their curses and spiteful words, aimed at you? Do you know what it's like to be a freak? Always, constantly alone-"

Tom gasped for breath and Minerva looked at him with wide eyes. "Tom-"she tried.

"Go away," he shouted suddenly, spinning around with blazing eyes. And then, all Gryffindor courage abandoning her, Minerva scrambled to her feet and ran away.

Later, when he approached her in the train and asked very courteously for her forgiveness and offered contrite words with a downcast expression, Minerva believed him. A part of her hated herself for it, but she was like a moth, drawn to the deadly beautiful shine of a candle and she could not withstand it.

"You're losing yourself , Minerva," the cautious part inside of her cried. "Better be careful." And deep down, she knew that the voice was right, but she couldn't and wouldn't try to resist the pull that Tom exerted on her. Minerva McGonagall was lost.


End file.
